Fall approaches, with school memories in tow

The little wild asters are making their appearance now, leaning over the creek as if watching the yellow leaves floating by. These are the blue-petaled flowers with yellow centers, probably the New England aster. They grow in clumps this time of year in wet thickets, meadows and swamps.

There are so many varieties of wild asters, from the calico aster, which is distinguished by the fact that they are at first yellow, and later turn purplish-red. Sometimes there are several colors on one plant. One of my favorites is the small-flowered white aster, which has numerous white flower heads and smells like honey.

The goldenrod is rife now, blooming along roadsides, fields and thickets. Like the wild asters, there are many varieties of this flower, and probably the most prominent is the tall goldenrod, which towers over the others and can grow to seven feet tall. The showy goldenrod is one of the loveliest of these flowers and has a dense pyramid of small yellow flower heads.

The sweet goldenrod is anise-scented, with flower heads arranged along one side of slightly arching branches. The crushed leaves of this flower give off a licorice scent that makes it easy to identify. A tea can be brewed from its leaves.

Physicians in ancient times believed that goldenrod had healing powers, but in modern times this plant has gotten a bad reputation. It has been blamed for causing hay fever, but actually allergies are triggered by ragweed, whose pollen is abundant the same time that goldenrod blooms. Goldenrod is innocent.

Autumn really has arrived, with cooler nights and shorter days. A blanket on the bed feels good at night and these cool mornings call for a jacket or sweater. It is the season that I love best, with the air as invigorating as a crisp Winesap apple, and the smell of burning leaves in the air. Daddy always burned off the garden after the last vegetable was harvested, raking the dead weeds and debris in a pile and burning it. He said that it got rid of pests and weed seed, making the ground ready for spring planting. I don't know about that, but it is the true perfume of fall.

We received a letter from Mildred Womack of Oceana, which I tried to use in my column last week. I have a gremlin in my computer that will delete whole columns, and even my gifted son-in-law Bob couldn't retrieve it. It is too good not to share, so here it is. She is 92 years old, still drives her car and does her own work. But -- she adds -- "I never had time to sit!" (Maybe that is the secret to long life.)

"My first husband died at age 29, and we had four children. There was none of this free stuff then, so when people ask me how I can get around so good, I tell them that I never had a chance to sit down!"

She sent a poem that she wrote pertaining to school days. And it is good. For some reason, grade school memories are more vivid in our minds as we get older, more than our high school days. It is probably because a lot of us went to a one or two room school, and thus spent eight years with the same students compared to only four years in high school. And some of us even spent all 12 years together.